


The Things We Never Had

by phdJohnlock



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (in reference to Bucky's arm), 70 years is a long time not to get any hugs, Body Modification, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes is a Sweary Fellow, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Mid-Credits Scene, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, Discussion of Amputation, M/M, Memory Loss and Recovery, Men Talking About Feelings, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-06-09 04:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6889291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phdJohnlock/pseuds/phdJohnlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In between leaving the Siberian bunker and that mid-credits scene (bless its heart), I like to think the boys did something other than stare at the wall silently.</p><p>In which there is a sponge bath, oatmeal with cinnamon, a new arm for Bucky, and a daring escape.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I saw CA:TFA like four years ago and didn't see CA:TWS and then saw Civil War in theaters and halfway through the movie I was like "fuck, I gotta go read some Stucky fic like right now" and that was twelve days ago and I've been in hell ever since. (I have since watched TWS twice, because I'm a glutton.)
> 
> Thanks mucho to [Jordyn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebatwings/pseuds/bluebatwings) and [Julia](https://twitter.com/eponassong) for beta things and also encouraging my Stucky tears. Any typos or stupid nonsense sentences are my own fault. I don't own these characters, blah blah you know the rest. Find me on twitter [here](http://twitter.com/uppityumbrella) or [tumblr](http://fuckmagesgetmoney.tumblr.com).

Wakanda was - what’s the word… _fuckin’ hot_. Bucky’s recent life hadn’t exactly prepared him for this sort of heat. A sheen of sweat covered every inch of his body before he even stepped off the plane, condensation beading on the metal stump remaining of his left arm. By the time they reached the palace doors he felt like he’d taken a bath. Steve didn’t seem phased, of course, even though Bucky’s first instinct was to ask if he needed something to help him breathe; the air was thick enough with humidity to swallow. But obviously, no, Steve didn’t need that anymore. Super serum, and all.

“You like the heat, Buck? I imagine this might be a nice change.”

“No, Steve, I really don’t,” he replied. “There’s a reason they didn’t call me the Summer Soldier.”

They were both beat all to hell and exhausted. Nine hours on a plane cured them of surprisingly little fatigue, although Bucky was absolutely inclined to blame King T’Challa for that. They spent most of the flight waiting, tense and uneasy, for him to say… something. Pretty much anything to follow up, “Get on the plane, and I will help.”

Instead they sat silently. Bucky drifted off several times only to be woken by a sharp pain from his missing prosthesis; could you get phantom limb syndrome from a metal arm? Steve stayed awake, and Bucky didn’t miss the glances thrown his way once about every ten seconds.

“I’m fine, Steve,” he’d had to say, and a flush had crept its way up Steve’s cheeks to his ears.

“I know, Buck. I just…” He waved his hand in Bucky’s general direction. “It’s just been so long.”

At this, Bucky had smiled, his first in what might as well have been years. It felt foreign on his lips.

Now, sitting at a very impressive table inside a real goddamn palace - although it didn’t look like a palace, really, from the outside, more like a large, modern office building - Bucky felt itchy within his own skin. There was too much at risk, too many plans to make, and not enough limbs on his body. Steve sat to his right, and T’Challa across from them. The King leaned back in his chair, spreading his hands on the table.

“I am sorry for my lack of hospitality on the plane,” he said, and he did sound genuinely remorseful. “I struggle to reconcile all that has happened with the pain I still feel. But of course,” he nodded to Bucky, who just stared back, impassive, “you are even more a victim than I am.”

“Your Highness,” Steve replied, and he sounded almost his real age for once, ancient and exhausted. “We can’t even begin to say how thankful we are for what you’ve done to help us.”

But T’Challa waved away his thanks, and simply said, “It is nothing. Here, you will be safe.” He turned to Bucky, who could barely keep his eyes open. “You must sleep. We will provide you with rooms, and when you have slept, the physicians at my disposal will assist you with your medical needs.” He nodded purposefully at the remains of Bucky’s arm, then stood and exited the room.

A terrifyingly beautiful woman led them up to an elevator, and they emerged on the fourth floor, into a dim corridor with only one door at the far end. She pressed her thumb to a panel where a doorknob would normally be, and the door opened with a very faint click. She followed them inside and shut the door behind herself.

“King T’Challa requests you make yourselves at home as our honored guests. You should find everything you will need in these rooms, and if you require something you do not find, please notify me and it will be brought to you with all available speed.” She gestured to a flat-screened intercom on the wall, and Steve nodded at her.

“Thank you so much, ma’am,” he said, and he actually bowed to her. Somehow, her answering smile only made her look more intimidating.

When they were alone, Steve turned to Bucky, and the calm, cheerful look on his face melted into something else - a need for sleep, and fear, and a profound sadness. He crossed the room in a few long strides and held Bucky’s arm as he sank onto a low couch, no longer able to maintain the pretense of a person not on the brink of… he didn’t even know what.

Steve knelt on the floor, reaching out to smooth Bucky’s hair out of his eyes, tucking the errant strands behind an ear. His hand was cool, and Bucky leaned his face into the touch, just a bit. Steve smiled at that, just a bit, and held his hand against Bucky’s cheek, the soft drag of his thumb against Bucky’s cheekbone a welcome feeling.

“You stay here a minute, okay, and I’ll check this place out, make sure -” he gestured at the empty air with his free hand - “everything’s fine. Okay?” Bucky nodded, although it took more energy than he really wanted to expend even to do that. He watched Steve move around their suite, performing what he assumed was a sweep for bugs and then disappearing for a moment into the adjacent rooms. He reemerged with an armful of soft, clean clothing, and placed it on the couch next to Bucky.

“Come on,” Steve muttered, placing an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and pulling him forward. “Let’s get you out of all this and into something you can rest in. Maybe something with a little less blood on it.”

It was difficult to hold himself upright. Not only was he exhausted down to the cellular level - hell, maybe even molecular - but the missing weight of a metal arm left him listless, constantly slanting to the right, needing Steve’s corrective guidance. He could barely assist - watched as Steve unzipped his tactical vest, pulled his right arm through and then carefully maneuvered it over the stump of Bucky’s left arm. Every time Steve looked at it a shadow passed over his features, some variation on remorse. Remorse for what Stark had done, or remorse for something far more - the necessity and the fact of the arm, itself? Unknown.

Steve tossed the tac vest to the side and pulled at the hem of Bucky’s shirt. The expression on his face was inscrutable, even as he pulled it higher, revealing a body criss-crossed with scars and old wounds.

“Can you move your - can you move it at all? For me to pull this off over your head?”

“I can try,” Bucky said, but he cried out in pain only a moment later as the raw wires in his arm actually sparked at his attempt. “No,” he gritted out. “Please - no.”

“Buck, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, stop, it’s okay.” Steve’s face looked pained, almost as if it was his own body betraying him. “I’m sorry. Hang on, I’ll get something to cut this with.”

Bucky watched him stand and move toward the small kitchenette, rummaging through drawers until he uncovered a pair of shears. “You don’t have to keep apologizing, Steve,” he grunted, as Steve knelt again in front of him and began to cut at his clothing, creating a tear in the hem of his shirt and then ripping it apart from the bottom up. An involuntary shiver traversed the length of his body, and Bucky frowned inwardly. _Stop it, body_.

Steve didn’t seem to notice; he set the scissors down and carefully peeled Bucky’s shirt away from his sweat-soaked torso.

“You wanna wash up before you sleep?”

Bucky just looked at him, and then looked at the exposed wires and bare circuitry hanging out of his shoulder, and then back at Steve.

“Oh, Jesus, of course not,” Steve said, and he ducked his head down, then looked back up at Bucky with a sheepish smile on his face. “Sorry, Buck. You always were the smarter of the two of us. That hasn’t changed much.”

Bucky smiled back, enjoying the way Steve’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “A sponge bath might be nice, though.”

“Yes! Okay, yes. Good idea. Let’s just get you….” Steve sat back on his heels, then, and pulled one of Bucky’s feet into his lap, unlacing his boot and pulling it off, taking the sock with it. He repeated the procedure on the other foot, then stood up and walked Bucky’s boots to the front door of the room, setting them neatly under the intercom. Bucky watched him move, recognizing in his posture and body language a Steve he hadn’t seen for over seventy years; a Steve from whom he’d been running while he tried to remember. A Steve for whom he’d gladly go to war, for whom he’d gladly kill; for whom he’d already killed. A Steve for whom he’d even try to _save_ the world. A Steve for whom he might even try to save himself.

Steve was back, and standing in front of him with his hand extended. “Let’s get you standing up, and take these off -” he gestured to Bucky’s pants - “and go in the bathroom and we’ll see about that sponge bath. Hmm?” Bucky raised his right hand and allowed Steve to help him to standing, although he really could probably stand on his own. Probably. He swayed only slightly when Steve let go, stepping backward and gesturing at Bucky’s belt.

“I’m gonna…” Steve licked his lips, just a bit, his tongue darting out to wet his slightly protruding bottom lip, worrying at the place where it was split.

Bucky cleared his throat. “I can probably do the belt myself,” he said, and watched Steve’s face cycle between relief and disappointment almost too rapidly to detect.

“Sure,” Steve replied, and wrung his hands a little helplessly. “I’ll go get a washcloth, then. Bathroom’s right here.” He pointed to the bathroom, which, _duh_ , Steve.

“I know, punk. Go on.” And Steve’s face actually lit up before he turned and headed toward the small room.

Bucky was able to get his belt and fly open with just his right hand, although he could admit it was a little harder than he’d anticipated. He held onto the back of the couch while he stepped out of his pants, and was struggling with getting his boxer briefs all the way off when Steve reemerged from the door.

“Do you, uh…” Steve made some flappy hand gestures toward Bucky, keeping his face averted. “Need help?”

“Nah, I think I’m - ah, shit - there we go. I think I’m good.” The boxer briefs fell to the ground, and Bucky stood, naked, only a bit self-conscious. It wasn’t like Steve had never seen it all before.

“Okay, well… c’mere, then, I’ve got a washcloth all soaped up and ready to go.” Steve did look at him, then, and Bucky felt the weight of his eyes as he stepped carefully toward the bathroom.

The small room was bright, tiled all over in white with shiny silver finishings. God, Bucky had missed brightness. Years and years and _years_ kept in the dark, the only light from red bulbs and what little he could snatch at the beginning or end of a mission. Then two years hiding in dirty apartments, newspapers taped to the windows so no one could see in, keeping him in perpetual dimness. Sunglasses and hats in public, disguises. Avoiding scrutiny.

Now, he sat gingerly on the closed toilet, and Steve walked over with a damp washcloth. Steve lifted his arm and began to wipe at his skin, and Bucky’s mind scattered in a thousand directions at once.

The cool touch of the cloth and the sure movements of Steve’s hands made him feel a little dizzy. Steve scrubbed down his right arm, then gathered Bucky’s hair up in his hand and lifted it, damp cloth passing over the back of his neck and rubbing circles around his shoulders. Bucky closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of Steve touching him.

“You’re the first person to touch me in about fifty years,” Bucky said without meaning to, and Steve immediately stilled. Bucky’s eyes snapped open, taking in Steve’s horrified facial expression, thinking quickly. _Make it better, make it better_. “I mean, the first person who wasn’t trying to hurt or kill me, or whatever.” This had exactly the opposite of his intended effect; Steve’s face crumpled into a look Bucky hadn’t ever wanted to see on him.

“Oh, Bucky,” Steve breathed, and set down the cloth. He knelt in front of Bucky, placing his hands on either side of his face. He pulled them close, until their foreheads met, and they stayed that way for long minutes, Bucky trying to keep his breathing under control and Steve shaking, just a bit. A single drop of liquid fell on Bucky’s thigh, and Bucky picked his head up, brought his hand to grasp Steve’s. Tears brimmed in Steve’s eyes, and he tilted his head to the side, weaving his fingers through Bucky’s.

“I am so sorry, Bucky.” He pressed his lips together for a moment, blinking rapidly before continuing. “I should’ve looked. I should’ve come to find you. If I had…” He blinked again, and tears fell from each eye, streaking tracks down his dirt-and-blood covered face. “If I had looked, none of this would have happened.” His voice cracked on the last word, and suddenly he was sobbing, face pressed into Bucky’s good shoulder, heedless of the pain of his knees on the hard floor and Bucky’s state of undress and everything else. “I’m so sorry, Buck, I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and all Bucky could do was hold him, wrap him in his good arm.

“I know, Stevie,” Bucky whispered, lips pressed into Steve’s hair. “I’m sorry too.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Jordyn and Julia for beta reading! This chapter contains medical stuff to do with Bucky's arm. If you don't like medical stuff, maybe don't read... approximately the middle third of this chapter.

Bucky woke to the tempting aroma of coffee and cinnamon. The bed on which he lay was… unfamiliar, and the room in which he had been sleeping was brighter and airier than anything he’d been used to. He wore only a pair of light blue linen sleeping pants that were definitely not his own. The noises coming from the other side of the door didn’t raise any immediate red flags, and nobody was talking in Russian, so… that was good. Probably.

He slipped out of the bed and took a step toward the door, but stopped when he overbalanced and had to catch himself on the bed with his right hand, because - where his left hand had been was nothing. A sudden wave of nausea hit him hard, and he bit back bile and tried desperately to remember.

One - where was he?

Two - what the _fuck_ had happened to his arm?

Three - why did the rest of him feel like he’d been repeatedly slammed into a brick wall?

Four - no, wait.

He knew, suddenly, that this happened to him a lot. Waking up with missing information. It was a sensation akin to a hangover from the worst fucking kind of home-brewed sludge men made in the trenches at war, but it was one he could handle.

First, examine existing knowledge.

He hadn’t been in Bucharest for at least a week now, and possibly even longer than that. He had an inkling about seeing a picture in a paper that definitely wasn’t him, and that had set him on edge. But when he’d escaped… why had he escaped? …he knew he’d grabbed his backpack. Bucky stood again, this time taking care to compensate for the strange new balance of his body, and searched about for his bag. 

He found nothing except a pile of black tactical gear he knew was his own, folded surprisingly neatly on top of a dresser. In the mirror above it, he cataloged his various bruises; that answered at least part of question three, he supposed. 

Well. Appraise the fuckin’ situation, _soldat_. Alone overnight in a quiet room, definitely someplace that involved some sort of fight to get there. The smell of food, although that obviously didn’t mean he’d actually get to eat anything. Door without any sort of obvious viewing window or bolt or mechanism to keep him trapped in this room.

Bucky moved cautiously toward the door again, taking care to watch for any shadows visible through the crack at the bottom. None, suggesting no assailants directly behind the door or immediately to the left of it, judging by the way the light was slanting.

He turned the doorknob and pulled the door open, just a crack.

“Morning, Buck.”

The closest sensation to which Bucky could compare the memories coming back to him was that of being waterboarded. A deluge of information hit him all at once, a series of images and sounds - sneaking up on Steve in his apartment, Steve holding his journal; running, and being chased off the side of a building by some motherfucker in a cat costume; the way Steve flung his arm out all protective when he knew the cops were surrounding them; Iron Man?; Steve saying, “You didn’t have a choice”; Colonel Helmut Zemo’s smug fucking face and a bullet hole in the head of each of Bucky’s five counterparts; Wakanda. He reeled a bit, knees buckling, and held out his left arm to catch his fall -

\- but he didn’t _have_ a left arm anymore -

\- so he toppled forward, but somehow, Steve was there to catch him before he hit the ground.

“Bucky! You alright?” Steve placed a hand under Bucky’s elbow and helped straighten him up, concern written all over that expressive face. Bucky shook his head a little, still disoriented. The last time he’d lost that many memories at once had been at least a year ago; he’d settled into far too comfortable a routine.

“Yeah, I’m okay. Thanks.” 

“What happened? Are you dizzy? We should call down and see if you can see the doctor right away, I’m sure they’ll be able to help somehow -” Steve said, but Bucky cut him off with a wave. _Don’t worry him. Steve won’t want to know how fucking messed up you are_.

“No, it’s really - I’m fine, Steve, don’t worry.” He tried on a smile he hoped was reassuring. “It kinda just… all came back to me really quickly. Was just a little overwhelming.”

Steve did not look reassured. “What came back to you?”

“Ah.” Bucky avoided eye contact, instead moving into the kitchen area and pointing to a tray on which sat a mug of steaming coffee and a bowl of oatmeal, cinnamon and sugar visibly swirled on top. Bucky’s heart gave a little flutter. When they were kids, cinnamon sugar oatmeal was a luxury treat, saved for birthdays and the most decadent occasions. _How can you remember that, anyway? Nothing those asshats did to your head makes any sense_. “This for me?”

“Yes,” Steve sighed, “but what came back to you, Bucky? Are you sure you’re alright?”

Bucky balanced the tray with his one hand, moving back to the couch and setting it on the coffee table. He picked up the coffee and drank deeply, letting the warmth soothe his nerves, before answering.

“I don’t always remember things from day to day. I woke up and couldn’t figure where I was, and I didn’t have my journal or my bag anywhere. When I came out here though, I dunno, you said my name and it kinda shook my memories back into me.” He shrugged, then winced as a shooting pain emanated from his left shoulder. “It’s not usually that intense though.” 

“Oh.” Steve’s look was slightly wary. “So what do you remember, now?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not about to knife your sorry ass. I remember who I am. And who you are, and where we are and why.”

“And that… happens a lot? That you forget?”

Bucky drained the remainder of his coffee and set the mug on the coffee table with a clink. He chose his words carefully before responding. No sense in alarming Steve more than necessary. “Sometimes. It’s not as big a deal when nothing’s happened for a while. We just had a pretty eventful week.” 

Steve’s answering laugh sounded a little hollow.

 

The medical suite on the second floor of the palace was state-of-the-art, as was seemingly everything else in this place. How could a country that had kept itself isolated for so long have made such vast steps forward in medical technology? Bucky considered this while a small army of doctors, nurses, and engineers prodded his arm, speaking amongst themselves in a language he didn’t understand. Steve and T’Challa sat in chairs along the wall; T’Challa, because he appeared to feel personally responsible for Bucky’s care, and Steve, because he was Steve.

“There is good news and bad news.” The doctor who seemed to be in charge stepped around the exam table to stand in front of Bucky. T’Challa had introduced her as his personal physician, which was possibly overkill on his part. Bucky was pretty sure he didn’t need royalty-level medical care. He wasn’t even sure half of Hydra’s “doctors” had medical degrees, and he’d survived this far, hadn’t he?

_Mental note: don’t tell Steve that joke. He won’t appreciate it._

“Alright.” Bucky rolled his shoulders back, stretching the muscles he’d been holding still for the last two hours. It wasn’t remaining undetected behind enemy lines overnight in the rain, but it wasn’t comfortable, either.

The doctor pulled up a screen showing X-rays from several angles of Bucky’s torso. What remained of his arm shone bright white, even moreso than his bones, and he could see extending from it a number of smaller white lines. He suspected this was the bad news.

“What you see here is the infrastructure of your prosthesis.” She pointed to three thick lines of white spouting out toward the center of his body. “Each of these rods is affixed to bone. One to a vertebra, here; one to this rib; and one to your scapula, as you can see.” She moved the screen away and lightly touched him in three places: chest, back, shoulder. “In order to fully detach the remainder of the prosthesis, we will need to remove these rods in addition to the external device.”

Bucky glanced over at Steve, which was a mistake; his face was a mask of sorrow, eyebrows pinched together and the corners of his pink lips turned down severely. Bucky quickly averted his gaze. “Those bastards never did anything halfway.”

“The good news is, your rate of healing so far suggests this procedure has the potential to be far less traumatic than for an average human.” The doctor smiled at him, and he was gratified to see no trace of pity in the expression. Pity could fuck right off.

At this, another woman stepped up from the back of the room - was T’Challa’s entire staff composed of beautiful women? That was looking like a distinct possibility - and presented him with a tablet. He looked at the screen, then back up at her. “Is this it?”

“This is a mock-up of what a new prosthesis could look like, yes.” Her voice was warm, and she gave off the vibe of a large cat lying in the sun. Relaxed and deadly, all at once. “It will be lighter, stronger, and less conspicuous than the old one.” She flicked to the next screen, on which Bucky could see an array of schematics detailing the inner workings. Unsurprisingly, it all looked much more streamlined than what the Soviets had managed. 

“Alright.” He handed the tablet back and glanced sidelong at Steve before turning his attention back to the physician. “When can we do this?”

“Bucky, wait, don’t you want to -” Steve was up out of his seat in a heartbeat, looking for all the world ready to intercede in something that called for absolutely no intercession. “Shouldn’t we talk about this?”

“It will be important for us to remove the existing prosthesis as soon as possible, so Mr. Barnes may begin the process of healing.” The doctor’s voice was firm: _I don’t answer to you_. 

Bucky held out his hand to Steve, in what he hoped was an obviously placating gesture. “Steve, it’s okay. They’re right. And this isn’t exactly comfortable.” Steve’s eyes flicked to his left shoulder and back to meet his gaze. How did the man manage to look so anguished all the time? “I promise, this is okay with me.”

The muscles in Steve’s jaw twitched like he wanted to argue, but mercifully, he only said, “Can I stay? Can I be in the room?” His voice was small, almost timid.

“Yeah, Stevie.” Bucky turned his hand palm up, and Steve latched onto it, anchoring himself. “Of course.”

 

The operation took seven hours; the recovery, three weeks. Even with enhanced healing capabilities, bones mended slowly, and Bucky grew restless. For the first week, he lay still in bed, alternating between naps and reassuring Steve he wasn’t in too much pain. The man was nonstop, bringing him water and books and newspapers, entertaining him with stories about the super-friends. Bucky didn’t let on that he knew all about many of the stories already; the eager, endearing look on Steve’s face was something Bucky wanted to cherish as long as he possibly could. He also carefully didn’t mention the conspicuous absence of one Tony Stark from Steve’s stories. 

The second week brought light physical rehabilitation and Doting Mother Hen Steve. Bucky felt slightly proud the first time he bent fully at the waist to touch his toes, and felt even more proud when he didn’t roll his eyes at Steve for asking whether that had been too much exertion.

At the end of the third week, Bucky told Steve he needed to go back into cryo, and Steve snapped his fork in half.

 

“Bucky, you don’t have to _do_ this!” Steve’s voice wavered as he spoke. He sat on the couch, one leg tucked up under the other, pleading with Bucky to change his mind; but Bucky wouldn’t, he _couldn’t_ , not if he wanted to be safe again.

“Yes, I do, Steve.” He stood in front of the couch where Steve sat, pacing back and forth. It was two in the morning; he was exhausted. But he had to make Steve understand, had to make sure he knew this was what Bucky wanted, and that he wasn’t afraid. The dolt hadn’t gotten any less stubborn over time, and Bucky couldn’t decide right now whether that was more frustrating or delightful. 

He stopped pacing and sat next to Steve on the couch, angling his body in toward Steve’s and placing his hand on Steve’s knee. “Listen. I have had to do some really _fucked up_ things in my life. And I know -” he held up his finger to cut off Steve’s interjection, “- I know I didn’t have any control over that stuff. For seventy years of my life I wasn’t a person.” 

Bucky paused for a breath, images cascading through his mind. Horrors he’d lived through and caused.

“Now, I _am_ a person. I can remember things. I remember where I am when I wake up in the morning. I remember you. I remember your ma making us Easter supper. And pulling you out of every back alley in Brooklyn all tore up and bruised. And I remember in Azzano, when you pulled me out, the first time I ever saw that new ugly mug of yours.” 

Steve’s smile was watery, but it was there, and it gave Bucky the courage to finish, lump in his throat threatening to overwhelm him at any moment.

“And yeah, I remember the other stuff, too. All the times they made me into a monster. Steve, I can’t trust my own mind. Until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head, I think going back under’s the best thing.” He swallowed his pain, the other words he couldn’t say out loud. “For everybody.”

_Not for me_ , Steve didn’t say, but Bucky heard it anyway.

 

The next morning, the two men sat in silent contemplation outside the room containing the cryogenic tube where Bucky would again undergo freezing. But this time he wasn’t afraid, and he wasn’t in pain. This time was different in so many ways.

The engineers had assured Bucky they were close to completing the new prosthetic arm, and would test it vigorously before they applied it to his body. This one, they said, wouldn’t require surgical attachment - just a mechanical installment into the socket they’d already placed - and would be painless. Bucky wasn’t sure if he could believe this, but it lifted the clouds from Steve’s expression, so he was willing to try. 

“You sure?” Steve asked again, and Bucky reached out; squeezed his hand.

“I’m sure.”

“I’ll be here when they wake you up for the arm, Buck. I won’t let you wake up alone.”

Bucky’s heart felt tight, like Steve had climbed into his chest and squeezed his whole body around it and refused to let go. 

The door to the room slid open with a _whoosh_ , and T’Challa walked out toward them, placid expression on his face. “The chamber is ready. If you will?” He swept his hand out in one of the majestic gestures they’d learned to expect when he was being King-ish, and they followed him into the room. 

In the center stood a modern-looking upright tube, containing far fewer horrifying implements than the cryo tubes Hydra had used. Around the perimeter of the room stood chairs, several tables holding computers and medical instruments, and a variety of native Wakandan flora in tasteful pottery. Floor-to-ceiling windows kept the large space bright, and if you weren’t familiar with the slight warp to the scenery behind them, you could be forgiven for not noticing they were bulletproof.

A pair of technicians circled Bucky, fitting him with a heart monitor and pulse oximeter, asking him questions he answered without thinking. Have you eaten today? No. Are you experiencing any pain? No. Do you really want to do this to Steve, now that you’ve finally been reunited and you’re pretty sure he couldn’t survive losing you again? No.

That last one may have only been in his head.

After that, it was all very quick. Bucky stepped into the chamber, the technicians made some final adjustments to his monitoring devices, and then the front slid shut with a click. Bucky looked straight out into Steve’s eyes, and there was a soft sighing sound, and the cold slipped into his blood and his bones and he slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here ends the canon compliance! The next chapter will continue this story and is speculation on my part. Hope you enjoy!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jeez, guys. Sorry. Life, and stuff. But here you go, the third and last chapter. Let's pretend it's timely.

Peaceful. If someone were to ask Bucky how he’d describe the month he spent in suspended animation (while Wakanda’s finest engineers created him a limb designed to do something other than kill), the word he’d choose is _peaceful_.

For one thing, he wasn’t frozen. Technically. This wasn’t the harsh, sudden cold he’d endured time and time again in his various freeze tanks under Hydra control. No ice crystals formed around his eyes or inside his throat or within his veins; only a gentle, cool mist flowed in and out of his uncovered nostrils, maintaining his lowered body temperature. 

For another, there were no painful restraints. Only a soft harness across his chest and a contoured pad behind his legs held him in place. It wasn’t that he had actually been able to _feel_ the restraints in the Hydra tanks, but he’d known they were there. Known because as he went under and as he came out he had struggled, every time; there were permanent marks around his ankles. No amount of practice - ha, “practice,” as if the tank was just like _fucking_ baseball or something - had made the tank any easier; it was like a primal urge. _Get out, get away_. 

Once, when he was a kid, he’d gone to the beach with his mom and his sister. He’d been maybe five years old. It was a beautiful summer day, no clouds in the sky, everyone and their uncle out enjoying the sun. His mom had been preoccupied with Becca, and he was splashing around with another boy his age, and a wave had hit him right behind the knees, knocking him backward and under the water. It wasn’t even deep; but he was surprised, and young, and could barely swim. For a minute he’d just lain there under the water, staring up at the warped image of the sun. The world was muffled, and peaceful. He’d sunk backward, down toward the sand until some lizard part of his brain screamed at him, _breathe!_ , and he’d propelled himself upright and sucked in a huge lungful of salty air. Even his dumb five-year-old brain knew he couldn’t stay under.

The tank used to be like that.

But then, Steve had never been there when Hydra had put him in it.

Perhaps most surprisingly, in between drifting half-dreams, Bucky sometimes heard people going about their business outside the tank. The first time, he’d thought they were waking him up; two voices were calling back and forth to each other. 

“Vital signs?” 

“Stable, doctor.”

And then a third voice: “How has he been looking?” Steve.

“Well, sir. No difficulties that I’ve seen so far.”

But they didn’t, and soon he drifted back under.

They talked directly to him, sometimes, or at least he thought they did. Usually they spoke in Xhosa, which was beyond even his impressive collection of languages. 

He couldn’t measure the passage of time with any accuracy, but the goings-on around him were seemingly fairly regular. People checking up on him, quietly humming to themselves; occasionally, T’Challa’s voice, reverberating through the large room and receiving answers in deferent tones. 

Peaceful.

It was, therefore, quite a surprise when he was roused from his rest by someone screaming.

The person was close by, and the scream was followed shortly by a crashing sound, as if something heavy and probably expensive had fallen from a great height. The screaming receded, but the crashing only got louder. It was behind him; he could feel his heart rate speeding up, in spite of the chill meant to keep it slow and steady. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t open his eyes.

Then -

“Shit, shit, shit.”

_Steve_.

Steve’s voice was close; he was mumbling under his breath. That sound was easy to recognize; that was Steve not having a damn clue what he was doing.

“Help! Please help me!”

No no no, Steve’s voice was receding; where was he going; why did he need help? _What the fuck is happening_??

“Please, I know, but you have to - we have to get him out! Just help and you can go, please!”

“Sir, I am not authorized -”

“I’m authorizing you! Just help me, please!” He was close again, loud and insistent.

“You can’t -”

“ _Please!_ ”

A pause.

“I don’t see the point. He will be weak. He will be disoriented. He won’t be able to help you at all.” (Bucky thought, _Huh. Shows what you know, lady. I’ve overcome a lot worse than that to help Steve._ ) Her speech was pressured and thickly accented, and although the words sounded like the woman was declining whatever request Steve was making, they were accompanied by the sounds of a keyboard clicking; apparently she was complying, because Steve responded with a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

A whirring began above Bucky’s head, like a fan, and the still, cool air within the tank began to circulate. In a minute, it was much warmer, and brief puffs of air were being emitted right into his face; concentrated oxygen, nitrogen, and other gases designed to get him re-acclimated to breathing like a normal person. Without thinking, Bucky opened his mouth and gulped in a mouthful of the fresh, warm air. His lungs protested, and he coughed, his chest movements restricted somewhat by the X-shaped straps holding him upright. 

Two clicks sounded above his head, and his eyes snapped open.

The front of the tube was sliding into the open position, down past his chin and his chest and his knees and finally flush with the ground. Steve stood right in front of the tank, and before Bucky had any time to process what the fuck was happening, Steve reached in and ripped off the harness; Bucky fell forward, a heap of dead weight into Steve’s arms.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” Steve held him upright like it was nothing, but Bucky’s knees wouldn’t lock and he sagged against Steve’s chest, his right cheek coming to rest just above Steve’s heart. He could feel it through the thin grey t-shirt, thumping out a steady rhythm. Bucky closed his eyes.

“What.” He meant it as a question, but his throat felt dry and scratchy, and he couldn’t quite get the rest of the sentence out. Luckily for him, Steve had always been particularly talented at guessing his meaning.

“We have to get out of here.” The words were barely louder than a murmur, but they echoed through Steve’s chest and vibrated into Bucky’s skin. “I’m really sorry - I know there’s a specific protocol to follow for waking you up, but we don’t have time. We have go to, now.”

Bucky opened his eyes again; whoever it was that had helped Steve open the tank was gone. Outside the doors to the room, he saw people rushing past in twos and threes; they all had weapons drawn. Steve pulled him further upright, one hand under his armpit and the other wrapped around his lower back; with some difficulty, Bucky got his feet under himself and managed to stand. He pulled away from Steve and turned to look out the large windows.

Although it was night, the sky was lit through by high-powered headlights affixed to the front of a helicarrier disturbingly similar to the ones SHIELD had used in the past. Around and behind it he could see other things flying; jets and helicopters. The brilliant foliage was being buffeted violently by the wind from the machines, and far in the distance there was a flickering kind of light that might have been fire.

Bucky turned back to look at Steve, whose eyes shone with reflected light. He placed his hand on Steve’s shoulder, attempting to steady himself.

“Heard crashing,” he rasped, and then frowned. His tongue felt like sandpaper. “I need. Water.”

Steve immediately pulled one arm away and through the strap of a backpack, swinging it around to his front. Out of a side pocket he pulled a bottle of water. “Sorry,” he muttered, twisting the cap off and tipping it to Bucky’s lips. “Here you go.”

Bucky let him pour the water in his mouth, feeling it coat his tongue and slip down his parched throat. He swallowed greedily, not pulling his head back until half the bottle was gone. Steve re-capped the bottle and replaced it, swinging the backpack back into place. Bucky pulled his hand from Steve’s body, testing his balance, and when he didn’t immediately lose it he said, “Now are you going to fill me the fuck in?”

Steve moved to the door, glancing backward like he was afraid to let Bucky out of his sight. “There isn’t enough time for the whole story.” He poked his head outside, assessing the situation. “The U.S. government knows we’re here and they’re sending people to bring us in.” Steve’s tone was clipped; he was angry. Angry with whom? Bucky took a few tentative steps toward him. Questions could wait; Steve wouldn’t lie, not to him, and Bucky wouldn’t be the one to slow them down.

“Okay. What’s the plan?”

Steve pulled his head back in. He examined Bucky with narrowed eyes. “Are you alright? How’s your balance?”

“It’s fine, Steve, I can walk, look. What’s the plan? Is this urgent or isn’t it?” 

Steve walked back toward the cryo tube, bending down and scooping something off the floor; he held it out to Bucky. “Yeah, but we aren’t leaving until you’re ready. Here. Can you put this on? I can fasten it up for you.” It was his tac vest. Bucky scowled at him but acquiesced, pulling it on over the useless stump of his left arm. The familiar weight of it on his shoulders made him feel more focused, somehow, his head clearer and prepared for danger. Steve did up the snaps on the front to save time, since _he_ still had two hands, and then stepped away too suddenly, leaving Bucky reeling in the space left by his absence. 

“Whoa, hey.” He took a step back toward Bucky, placing a gentle hand under his elbow. “I’m sorry, Buck. We can - I can -”

“Steve.” Bucky met his eyes, his stupid puppy dog eyes, and squared his jaw. “If you apologize one more time I am going to punch your damn lights out.” Steve blinked at him and then guffawed, a loud, incongruent sound in their current setting. 

“I guess you’re feeling just fine, then.” He turned back toward the doorway, one side of his mouth turned up in a smile. Bucky mentally patted himself on the back. 

“Oh - wait, Steve.” Steve turned on a dime and rushed back toward Bucky, eyes wide.

“What? What is it?”

Bucky waved away Steve’s anxious hands. “Calm the hell down, champ, I’m not made of glass. You think I haven’t been unfrozen before and had to get up and do shit right away, you are dumber than a pinecone.” Steve looked slightly chagrined, so Bucky went on. “Are they done with the arm, yet? I’m feelin’ pretty lopsided over here, is all.” 

Bucky hadn’t known he would be ready to joke about having his arm ripped off, but then again, that fucking arm was the most lasting legacy of his continued detention and torture by Hydra, so he couldn’t work up too much angst about it.

Steve shook his head. “I don’t know yet. We have to go find T’Challa - he warned me, came to our room in the middle of the night and warned me himself to get out of here.” Steve shook his head, bemused. “There could be a war over this, Buck. They’re invading a sovereign nation and it’s all because of us -”

“That’s their dumbass fault, not ours.” Bucky cut him off. “Let’s go find him, then. Clearly,” he gestured toward the window, all the chaos outside, “they don’t care what they have to do to get to you.”

Steve pretended not to notice Bucky’s slip into the vernacular of their past - they’re coming for _you_ , I’ll protect _you_ \- just as Bucky had pretended not to notice Steve calling it _our_ room. Bucky appreciated that.

Steve glanced him over once again, nodded, and then moved to the doorway. Bucky followed, a lithe shadow, as Steve darted through the chaos. 

“Where are we going?” Bucky hissed. They seemed to be moving against the current, back into the heart of the palace compound. Everyone they passed was hurrying toward and then past them, presumably to join the fight. Bucky’s trigger finger itched.

“To the war room,” Steve replied, stepping to the side as a row of four more gorgeous, terrifying women strode past without a glance at the two of them. Bucky turned to watch them go. They were clearly ready to dive in to the fray - they wore body armor, and each of them bore the unmistakable outline of not one, but two pistol holsters. 

“Dora Milaje,” Steve said, grabbing Bucky by the elbow and pulling him down flight of stairs. They descended, the sounds of engines and fighting outside gradually fading as they went.

“What?”

“Those women are part of the Dora Milaje. They’re like the Secret Service.”

Bucky whistled. “Damn. T’Challa does everything in style.” 

They entered a dark, cold hallway. Although doors lined each side, they were all closed except one at the far end. Shadows moved in the light spilling out into the corridor. From inside, Bucky heard a mixture of voices, T’Challa prominent over them all.

The room fell quiet as Steve and Bucky entered, Bucky lingering behind near the door. T’Challa and half a dozen more of the Dora Milaje stood around a table, bent over tablets and computers. One woman stood in the corner with her back to them, speaking rapid-fire into a bluetooth device. T’Challa smiled grimly.

“Captain. Sergeant Barnes. I do apologize for all of this.” 

Steve shook his head. “I won’t accept that, Your Majesty. I should never have put you at risk by staying here.” Bucky felt a sharp pang of remorse. A damn century old and Steve had never once let an opportunity to take unfair blame pass him by.

T’Challa shook his head, and looked back at a screen on the opposite wall. It showed communications that had presumably been intercepted from the vehicles outside. Bucky saw diagrams, aerial photos of the complex, and two very mugshot-looking photos of him and Steve. He shuddered and longed for the quiet stillness of the cryo chamber.

“How many of them are there?” Steve asked. Bucky recoiled at the grim note in his voice; far by a country mile from the _let’s fight ‘em all, Buck_ idealism of their youth. Far from the clear certainty of the old war. Hunted by his own ungrateful country.

“Enough,” T’Challa replied. “There is no hope of repelling them to keep you safe. You will have to leave. I am… truly sorry.”

“How?” Bucky asked. Eight heads, including Steve’s, swiveled to stare at him. He stared back. But even his emptiest, most Winter Soldier expression didn’t make an impression. Damn. These women were tough.

Steve broke the silence. “We can cross the border on foot, I’m sure we can outsmart whoever’s out there. Then we can get a dumpy hotel, try get a message out to Nat -”

“No.” T’Challa cut him off. “Your courage is admirable. But there is an easier way.”

He said something in Xhosa to the women, who pulled up additional documents on the screens and continued to strategize. T’Challa led them out of the room, back in the direction they’d come. “The women do not really need me to tell them what to do. Left to their own devices, they do most of the work. I am merely the figurehead. In addition,” he added, and his eyes shifted to Bucky, “my duties as the protector of my people are increasingly important, as of late.” 

At the far end of the hallway, T’Challa punched a code into a sleek panel on the left hand wall, and in front of their very eyes a seemingly empty wall split open along a crack that had been invisible moments before. Gradually, a large, dark space appeared. T’Challa stepped through the doorway, and lights flickered on - first the ones just above them, and then gradually further and further out to illuminate a massive hangar. Sleek black jets, five of them, sat waiting. 

Steve turned to T’Challa with a serious expression. “Your majesty -” 

T’Challa stopped him with a firm shake of his head. “I do not and will not accept your protestations. I have made it my responsibility to keep you both safe, and I will do so. Did you take my previous recommendation and secure a secondary residence? Somewhere you have no connections?”

Steve nodded, mute.

“Good. Then wait here and I will return shortly.” T’Challa disappeared back down the long corridor.

Bucky stepped past Steve and surveyed the large hangar below them. The doorway behind them was the only way in, save for the large, very solid-looking aircraft entrances, all shut tight. Bucky stepped toward the railing and eyed the planes: low-profile, all black; designed for speed and stealth, not for combat. He guessed they were seeing T’Challa’s personal fleet, and Bucky actually felt a little humbled at the show of generosity they were receiving. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Steve’s voice, low and urgent. Steve stepped up to his side and hooked one hand around Bucky’s elbow, turning him so they faced each other.

“Buck,” he said, “I gotta make sure you’re okay with this. This is so - I can’t just ask you to do this. To run away off the grid.”

Bucky stared. “What?” Steve stared back at him with worry written in every line of his body. “Steve, where the fuck do you even think I’ve been the last two years? It ain’t like I was collecting government checks. If you think I expected to walk out of here and go buy a house with a white picket fence you need to get that giant head of yours checked.”

Steve looked mournful. “You deserve a normal life, Bucky. I hate… this.” He waved his hands at nothing and everything. “I hate this.”

“I know.” Bucky put on a lopsided smile, casting his eyes away from Steve. He steeled himself. “You’re not gonna make me go this alone, are you? You thinking about skipping out on me?”

“No, buck, no. Of course not.” Steve didn’t hesitate. “I’d never do that. Not if I had any choice at all.” Bucky looked back to him. He didn’t know what he’d expected Steve to say. But the earnest expression on his face didn’t lie. Buck swallowed against a lump in his throat. 

“Steve, we’ll make it,” he said, and leaned in to clap his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve’s eyes briefly flickered shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of that touch. “We’ve been through worse.”

The faint sounds of clicking heels echoed down the hall toward them, giving them a moment to move apart, and T’Challa reentered the room followed by one of his bodyguards. She smiled at them in a way that was not at all friendly and held out her hand to shake. Steve obliged her, then Bucky. Her grip was like iron. 

“My name is Oye. I will pilot you and return with the jet. I have also been asked to bring you this.” Without turning her head, she reached backward to T’Challa, who handed her a long black object. Bucky realized with a shock like a jolt of electricity that it had a hand. Oye held it out toward him and he reached out to touch it, tentatively, not sure what to expect. It was black; it looked like the Black Panther’s suit, textured to absorb the light, not reflect it - built for stealth. It had _give_ to it, molding under his fingers, then springing back when he removed his hand and turned to T’Challa.

“This is for me?” He tried to keep the longing out of his voice, but what a gorgeous thing, so much cleaner and more beautiful than the one those Nazi fucks had given him. 

T’Challa smiled, white teeth gleaming against his dark skin. “Yes, Sergeant Barnes. It is for you.” 

Bucky marveled at it. For _him_.

Oye gestured toward his shoulder. “May I?” 

Bucky nodded, slightly fazed. With deft fingers, she slipped off the rubbery cap covering his left shoulder, exposing a socket made of the same black material, inlaid into the metal they hadn’t been able to remove. “It is made of vibranium,” she said, and clicked it into place. Immediately, Bucky could _feel_. He flexed his fingers and they responded, with so much more nuance than he was used to. He looked to Steve, who didn’t seem to know what to do with his face.  
“Hey Stevie, look. Who’s got two thumbs and ain’t afraid of the future?” Bucky grinned and flashed two thumbs up. “This guy!” He wiggled his eyebrows.

Steve cracked a toothy smile, laughed, and looked away, but Bucky thought he caught a flush on those cheeks. Oh, Steve. Bucky curled his hand into a fist, bent it at the elbow - the movement was so smooth, no pain at all. No heavy metal.

T’Challa broke the spell. “Gentlemen,” he said, and stepped forward. Steve turned back; Bucky put his hand down by his side, although he couldn’t keep it still. It felt too wonderful to ignore yet.

“It has been an incredible honor to provide you both with a home these past few months.” He looked between them, solemn. “I cannot express the depth of my sorrow for your visit to end on this note.” He bowed deeply, hands folded in front of his chest. “I need to return, but…” From his pocket he pulled a sealed envelope, which he gave to Steve. Steve turned it over; Bucky saw no writing, or anything to indicate its contents. Steve nodded, as if he understood, and folded the envelope, sliding it into an inner pocket of his coat. 

“Your Majesty, truly, I don’t -” 

A huge _boom_ sounded from outside: a bomb. The hangar shook, and they all looked up, as if the solid concrete would give way to let them see outside. In a flash, Oye was past them. She sped down the stairs and out of sight. T’Challa held out a hand to them, palm up, then laid it across his chest and bowed deeply.

“I am needed,” he said. “Good luck. Do not try to contact me until it is safe. Lie low. Please,” he was at the door, nearly out. “Take care of each other.” And he was gone.

Bucky looked to Steve, who was visibly shaken, and opened his mouth to speak. He was interrupted by the roar of an engine behind them. The jet nearest to them was on, stairs telescoped up to the door. Oye emerged momentarily to beckon them with a wave before ducking back in.

It was time.

Steve and Bucky rushed toward the plane; once inside, they fumbled with the controls, managing to push the stairway back before Oye took over. She shut the door, quickly, and they heard a rumble. The hangar door was opening outside; they had a narrow window to get out and get up without compromising the safety of the facility.

“Sit,” she said, and they did. “Buckle in.” Oye took her place in the cockpit, adjusting dials and settling a large headset over her ears. Bucky clipped a seatbelt over his hips; Steve sat on the edge of his seat, trying to see through a narrow cockpit window. 

Oye glanced back at them. “Are you ready?”

Bucky had no idea.

“Yes,” Steve said, and they were off. The plane lurched forward; Bucky couldn’t see outside, couldn’t tell what was going on around them, but they gathered speed quickly and soon - very soon - the telltale swoop in his stomach told him they were off the ground.

“Steve,” he said, and Steve looked at him. “Put your thing on.”

Steve looked down, said, “Oh,” and sat back in his seat. He pulled the seatbelt across his waist and fastened it.

The plane was quiet. Bucky thought they were moving very fast, but virtually no noise permeated the shell. He looked at Steve. Steve looked back. A thought occurred.

“Hey, where are we going?” Bucky asked. Steve looked momentarily surprised, then actually smiled.

“Uh, actually, we’re going to Paris. I found - well, I got us an apartment. I figured, you know, no one’s gonna look for us there.” He hesitated.

“That okay, Bucky? You alright?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, brought his hand up to smooth through his hair. Away from the fighting. Away from the States, from bad reminders of awful things. With Steve. In Paris. He smiled. Yeah. Yeah, he was alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, and I really am sorry I've kept it unfinished so long. The tentative plan is to write a sequel to this, but honestly who the hell knows. I do love these good good boys, so I hope I can get my stuff together enough to do it. If so it'll pick up in Paris, ooh la la. <3


End file.
